


until I'm home again

by Rehearsal_Dweller



Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: Dad!Donald, Gen, Spoilers for Moonvasion!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-17
Updated: 2019-09-17
Packaged: 2020-10-20 15:09:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20677415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rehearsal_Dweller/pseuds/Rehearsal_Dweller
Summary: Donald knows that his family didn't know where he was.





	until I'm home again

**Author's Note:**

> This is just an excuse to have Donald go full dad mode with all the kids after the last episode, because they all desperately need it.

Donald knows that his family didn’t know where he was. He knows they thought he was on the cruise they’d sent him to, knows they thought he’d been relaxing like he’d so badly needed. He doesn’t blame them for not looking for him. He isn’t even surprised they’re lying to him about it, and he lets them lie because they don’t know what to do with him or how to handle things so pretending they at least had one piece covered is pretty much all anyone (most of all Scrooge and Della) can maintain any level of control.

Huey, bless him, is the first one to come clean.

“Hey, uh, Uncle Donald?” He says, tapping gently on the doorframe of Donald’s room in the houseboat. “I’ve got something I want to talk to you about. It’s been bothering me.”

Donald’s been expecting this; his finely honed Dad-senses have been telling him for days that the kids are all itching to confess. He pushes the side of the hammock out, making room next to him. Huey crawls in and for a moment it’s like he’s four years old again, coming to Donald with a nightmare. Donald lets the fabric cradle Huey close to him, wanting to soothe his son, to tell him he knows already and it’s okay, but knowing that Huey needs to say this out loud.

“What’s up, Hue?” 

“I -“ Huey falters. He buries his face in Donald’s shoulder, his voice muffled. “We didn’t know you were on that island. We thought you were on the cruise.”

“Of course you did,” Donald says, running his fingers gently through the feathers atop Huey’s head. “That’s where I was supposed to be.” 

“We didn’t even try to get you when Mom showed up!” Huey says. “Even though she’s your sister! Even though she was  _ dead!” _

“Oh, Huey.”

Huey picks his head up, resting his chin on Donald’s chest instead of his forehead, so he can look his uncle in the eye. He’s crying. “I missed you so much, Uncle Donald.”

“I missed you, too, kiddo.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to be sorry,” Donald says. “None of this was your fault. I’m home, and your mom’s home, and that’s what matters.”

They fall silent, save for Huey’s occasional sniffles. The hammock, set swinging when Huey crawled in, sways gently. Donald has things he’d planned to do today, but as he holds his crying, broken child, he mentally clears his schedule. He will stay here until Huey is ready to move, and then he will let Huey choose dinner. They’ll eat on the houseboat, and maybe Dewey or Louie will join them, because sometimes they all just need to have that grounding. Donald is thirty-five and tired, Huey is eleven and overwhelmed. 

Just for this moment, though, Donald might as well be twenty-four again, holding a newly hatched duckling for the first time in his  _ life _ , adrift but determined to be a good dad. 

(Just for this moment, Donald thinks he might actually have done alright.)

Webby is next.

Donald is sitting on the floor in his childhood bedroom, surrounded by boxes of stuff he’d left behind when he left for college, for the navy, for good. (Scrooge had insisted that he threw all of it out as soon as Donald moved out the second time, but here it all still is.) He’s sorting through it all, trying to reclaim some sense of who he used to be. Of course this is where Webby finds him - this is Webby’s favourite place to find him.

“Hey, kiddo,” he says. She’s in the vents. “Come down, would you? Your granny just turned the air on, you’re gonna get sick.”

Webby lands next to Donald with a  _ thunk _ , not even disturbing the debris around him. “Hey, Uncle Donald.”

“Something on your mind, Webs?”

“Um,” Webby says. She doesn’t look at him, her eyes instead fixed on a photo of Donald as a high schooler with Della and some of his friends. “Yes.”

“Care to share?” Donald prods. Webby frowns. He knows she sometimes struggles for words (though she often covers it by chattering around her meaning until she can nail down the wording, sometimes in her unguarded moments it just leaves her like this: quiet, pensive, frustrated), and doesn’t ask again while she collects herself.

Eventually, she says, “We lied, on the island.”

“I had a feeling,” Donald admits. “Has it been bugging you?”

“A lot,” says Webby. 

Donald, who’s been sitting with his arms around his knees, opens an arm to her. Webby leans into him, head falling onto his shoulder. “What bothers you more, that you didn’t know or that you lied?”

“We  _ couldn’t _ have known,” Webby replies. She shakes her head. Donald can’t see her face, but he can just about hear the frown in her voice. Webby is an inexperienced liar, still, despite the boys’ influence, and it always leaves her feeling terribly guilty. “We should’ve just told you the truth. But everybody else was saying how we  _ totally knew _ and I’m not, like,  _ really _ family so I didn’t want to -”

“Webbigail B. Vanderquack, you take that back!” Donald says, pushing her away from him just enough to look her in the eye. “ _ Not really family _ , how could you say that? After all this time?”

“Because I’m - I’m -”

“You’re only  _ not family _ by the barest of technicalities. My boys  _ chose _ you as family, and so did I.” Donald kisses her forehead. He’d coined a nickname for her almost a year ago now, most used in moments just like this. “You’re my Bonus Kid, remember?”

“Yeah, Bonus Dad,” Webby replies weakly. 

He ruffles her hair. “Don’t beat yourself up over the lie, Webby. And don’t beat yourself up over not knowing I was missing. We’re home.”

For a long moment, they sit in silence. Then, eventually, Webby reaches for the high school photo by their feet. Donald looks at it, too, over her shoulder, his fifteen-year-old self and sister grinning up at him. “I’m sorry we didn’t tell you about Della.”

“Hey, it wasn’t your call, Webs,” says Donald. He gives her a gentle shake. “And anyway, I’m home now, and she and I can fight to our hearts’ content, just like when we were kids. Did you really want to start  _ that _ sooner?”

“I guess not,” Webby laughs. “Hey, Uncle Donald, where was this taken? It doesn’t look like Duckburg?”

“We were at a beach house my friend Mick’s family owned,” Donald replies, pointing to his childhood friend in the photo. “That’s him. His mom took this about five minutes before Della threw me in the ocean, which started this  _ massive  _ water fight…” 

They sit in Donald’s old room until Mrs Beakley calls them down for lunch, swapping stories about Della - Donald’s from their childhood, Webby’s from her return. Both leave in higher spirits than when they’d found each other.

Louie doesn’t  _ tell _ him, exactly.

Ever since they got home, Louie has stayed in a pretty close orbit to Donald. He’s too cool to admit to it, but Donald always knows where he is. Sometimes he’ll sit on his phone or watching TV quietly in the same room as his uncle, sometimes he’s in the next room over but close enough to respond immediately if Donald calls him.

The more tired, or nervous, or scared he is, the closer he is.

Donald has been sleeping in the mansion since the Moonvasion to be closer to the boys, but one night he falls asleep in his chair on the houseboat about an hour before he’d planned to go up to his room. He wakes up to noise outside and when he goes to investigate, he finds Louie climbing up onto the deck, looking slightly frantic.

“Lou, what’s wrong?”

“I - and you weren’t in your room so - “ Louie says, eyes wide. “I was afraid you were gone again.”

“Oh,  _ Louie _ .” Donald pulls his youngest child into a tight hug before leading him inside. “I’m right here.”

“I know,” says Louie. “I  _ know _ . Sorry for bothering you, I’ll just go back up to the -”

He tries to pull away from Donald, but Donald doesn’t let him, instead steering him onto the couch. “It’s okay, kiddo.”

“I wish we never sent you on that cruise,” Louie mumbles, and he must be tired because he’s never this forthcoming about his feelings in the light of day. “Tried to send you, I guess.”

“You were just trying to do something nice for me,” says Donald. His tone is calm and soothing, and he rubs little circles on Louie’s back. “You couldn’t have known I’d end up on the moon.”

“Or that Mom would come back.” Louie looks up at him, eyes a little watery. “She’s really - it’s cool, you know, to have her here? But she’s not - she’s not  _ good _ at being a parent. Not like you.”

“I’ve had a lot more practice than my sister has,” Donald replies. “I’m sure she’s learning.”

“Ha, yeah. She is,” says Louie. “She even grounded me once, like. Really effectively.”

“I heard. Something about a Gyro Gearloose time machine?” 

“Yeah.” Louie sighs. “I don’t know, Da- Uncle Donald. I just wish you’d been there. Mrs B’s been teaching Mom the parent thing, but she should be learning it from _ you _ . You raised us.”

“I wish I had been, too, Louie.” 

“I missed you.”

“I missed you, too.” Donald gives Louie a little squeeze. “Every day.”

Louie pulled his feet up next to him, leaning heavily into Donald’s embrace. “Can I sleep in the houseboat tonight?”

“Of course, kiddo. Wanna read for a bit first?” Donald offers. Louie nods, though he’s already starting to drift. Donald reaches around Louie to snag a book sitting on the side table - one from that series about greek demigods that the boys are so fond of - being careful not to dislodge him. He starts to read, and Louie is asleep by the end of the second chapter. Donald sets the book on the couch arm and scoops his son up, with all the careful practice of a father whose children had a habit of avoiding bedtime until they fell asleep where they played.

He settles Louie onto his bed and tucks him under the green blankets. He sits on the edge of the bed, watching Louie’s chest rise and fall. He’s always been a nervous kid, never as outgoing as his brothers, as much as he tries to hide it. Donald sighs, squeezing Louie’s ankle through the blankets. At least asleep, in his old bed in his old room, with Donald watching over him, he doesn’t have to worry about Della or the Moon or Donald disappearing again. Donald only wished he hadn’t had to worry in the first place.

Dewey, Donald thinks, spills the beans by accident.

They’re talking over breakfast about what happened while Donald was gone, just the two of them. Huey is on a Junior Woodchuck campout with Launchpad, Webby and Della are on a Girl Bonding Adventure, Scrooge is at work, Mrs B is in another part of the house working on something, Louie is still asleep. 

“- and then Mom showed us how to slide down the bannisters and you’d  _ never _ have let us do that if you weren’t on your cruise but -” Dewey falters. “I guess you weren’t on that cruise though, huh?”

“Nope,” says Donald. 

“Because you were on the moon,” Dewey continues.

“Yup,” says Donald.

“Instead of the cruise where we thought you were.”

“Yup.”

“Sorry about that.”

“It’s okay.”

Dewey frowns at his cereal. “You know, Webby and I tried looking for you?”

“Yeah?” Donald prompts. He’s surprised, no one (not even Webby) had hinted so far that they  _ actually _ knew he wasn’t where he was supposed to be in the month he was away. “Why?”

“Well, Mom showed up,” Dewey says, still talking to his breakfast more than Donald, “and we were, like,  _ dying _ for some other big mystery. You know.”

“That does sound like you and Webs,” says Donald. 

“And, well, you never sent us any postcards.” Dewey finally looks up at him again. “And one Huey sent you got sent back. But in the end we - we were chasing the wrong thread, and we gave it up. It was a dead end. We figured we were just working ourselves up over nothing, and you were just having a fun vacation.”

“I don’t think you would’ve found me.” Donald rests a hand on Dewey’s shoulder. 

“We should’ve kept looking!” Dewey shrugs off Donald’s hand, standing up. “We could’ve - we should’ve - “

“Dew,” Donald interrupts, standing up as well. “You couldn’t have known where I was, you wouldn’t have found me. It’s okay.”

“But I solve mysteries! I go on adventures! I could’ve - I could’ve found you.” Dewey’s eyes have started to tear up. He finishes in a quiet voice. “We needed you here.”

Donald pulls him into a hug. “I’m here now. You’re just a kid, Dewey. It’s not your responsibility to keep track of me.”

“I missed you, Uncle Donald.”

“Yeah, bud. I know. I missed you, too.”

Della hasn’t owned up to the lie yet. Scrooge - well, Scrooge hadn’t pretended to have known where Donald was, but he also hasn’t brought it up or apologised yet. Donald doesn’t care, though. He’s got bigger issues to work out with them than whether or not they were looking for him, and as long as the kids are alright it doesn’t matter. 

They’ve got all the time in the world.


End file.
